Scars
by VSSAKJ
Summary: -COMPLETE- As long as he lived, there would always be too many scars. -Lyude centric.


Lyude had too many scars to count. He'd tried, once, while he was in the shower, and become too disheartened to continue after the first few. Each scar was explicity tied to a vivid memory, and each memory flung him back into the red hell of Mintaka.

* * *

There was a small, almost star-shaped scar on his ankle from when he'd fallen off a low cliff just outside the city. (He hadn't really supposed to have been there, but mother had never been as strict with him as she was with Skeed and Vallye.) He'd stumbled home grim-faced, having applied a minimal bandage with what he could tear from his shirt and buttoning his stiff jacket closed so his bare skin would not be exposed.

The rules were very clear: do not show weakness. He'd chewed his lip until he'd nearly fallen through the door of his house, and once he had, and Almarde had pulled him up into the bathroom to clean the blood away, he burst into tears. (Not from the pain, not even because of that, but because his brother and sister had completely ignored his lurching inside, not even sparing him a glance.)

* * *

There was a long, jagged one up the inside of his left thigh, from a knife wound he'd taken while in training school. He recalled the moment leading up to it, and the hundred other ones before that, the fellow student who'd jeered at him for his longer hair (Almarde had liked it) and his antipathy towards physical combat of any sort.

"You're not a man. You can't even _fight_." He'd drawled, shoving Lyude backwards as an example. The redhead did not resist. "See? You won't stop me." He'd laughed loudly at that, and flipped open a switchblade from his pocket (a contraband item, especially in training). Then his tone had become harsher. "You fucking bitch. You're a goddamn woman under all that." And he'd lunged, aiming for something Lyude had known wasn't his leg, but he'd made to dodge to one side and only caught the edge of the blade on his one side. That had been painful.

(Vallye, climbing the ranks but no where near as quickly as Skeed had, had come by patrolling at that moment. She'd only said, "You think women can't do their jobs?", cuffed him neatly on the back of the neck and dragged him coolly down to the commanding officer's quarters. She'd left her partner to aid in escorting the injured Lyude to first aid.)

* * *

There was a straight, thin line that ran from the inside of his elbow to the base of his wrist – a graduation gift from Skeed. "You don't want this?" He'd asked with casual cruelty, toying with Lyude's badge between his fingers and staring down the younger redhead even though he was seated at the time.

Lyude remembered fighting to keep the tremor from his voice. "Sir! I will accept your judgement regardless of whether it is positive or negative."

Skeed had laughed. "I see school has not raised your level of intelligence, Lyude. Small surprise." The last he'd added in a scoff to one side, and as he'd stood up, Skeed had drawn his gun from his side and aimed it at Lyude's forehead.

The shorter redhead had swallowed, then ventured foward a single step, "Brother – "

"Shut up." The gun had clicked ready (terrifyingly loud in the otherwise silent room), and Skeed had advanced forward until the cold metal pressed into Lyude's foreheard. "Do not forget your place, you scum. Half-breed Azhani _filth_. Your very existence dragged my name, my father's name, through the mud. You don't deserve this." (He'd indicated the badge.) "Give me one good reason why I should not pull this trigger right now."

(He'd had no idea. Hard as he'd always tried to understand, to please, Skeed's logic had ever eluded him.)

Impatient, Skeed had moved his gun to the hollow where Lyude's jaw met his throat, and pushed it into the skin to the point where it was painful. Lyude remembered turning his head just slightly, to relieve the pressure on his windpipe, and the cry he'd had to stifle when Skeed had jerked the gun up farther, snapping, "Face forward, _soldier_."

Lyude's back had been impossibly straight, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides because he'd had few other options in how he could react. He'd never had a doubt that Skeed would shoot him.

Then, rather suddenly, the gun had been absent. "Do you want this, Lyude?" Skeed had been displaying the badge in front of his eyes again.

"Skeed, I – " Lyude remembered fumbling, and then gasping for breath as Skeed's fingers had clenched and twisted the collar of his jacket, the darker-haired redhead snarling at him, "Shut. Up. You have no right to address me personally. You have no rights to anything but the underside of my boots, the backside of my hand and being out of my sight, _do you understand_?!"

Lyude had only been able to nod.

"You don't deserve this." Skeed had repeated darkly, not allowing him the honour of pinning his own badge to his breast for the first time. (How he'd managed with one hand still half-choking him, Lyude had never bothered to try and understand.) "You'd rather die, wouldn't you?"

Lyude had recognised this as bullying, but said nothing. When Skeed had shaken him for not offering a response, he'd nodded again, only once. He'd almost guessed what would be next.

Skeed had pressed him backwards until he'd met the wall, then pressed one arm against his neck while he drew a knife with the other.

(He could not honestly say that moment had been the first time he'd considered suicide, but he could say that it was the first time he'd let someone try to kill him without fighting back.)

* * *

Lyude had too many scars to count. One thing which made it exceptionally difficult to do was the number of scars that were on the inside. For each scar that anyone could see, there had to be at least three more cut into his heart, his head, his soul. There was no part of him that had not endured suffering. He'd once wondered about whose scars went the deepest into him, but he knew that. He knew Skeed's went almost as far, if only because Skeed was his brother (half-brother).

Folon.

Folon's scars were physical. He had a score of them on his back from the blue-skinned man's attempt to kill him, bites on his shoulders and nails down his spine and teeth in his neck. (He wondered if he'd really heard Skeed laughing that day.) Folon's scars were in his mind; sometimes he still rolled over in bed to make sure he was alone, that his back was to the wall, that there was no way someone could leap on him and rip him apart as Folon had that day.

Lyude knew Folon's scars were deeper and darker than his own, though, and that's why he couldn't hate the blue-skin.

(Folon had more scars than _anyone_ could count. Skeed was pristine, untouched – clean.)


End file.
